


state of dreaming

by largedragon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Nightmares, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:13:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/largedragon/pseuds/largedragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a bad night.</p><p>Dean still has them, every now and then. Usually, these are the nights he will drink, wash away the hell that flashes before his eyes and imprints itself to the backs of his eyelids.</p>
            </blockquote>





	state of dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Nic (diedinthefall) for beta-ing, morally supporting, helping tag and post this whole thing correctly and basically walking me through the entire process. You're the literal best.

It's a bad night.

He still has them, every now and then. Usually, these are the nights he will drink, wash away the hell that flashes before his eyes and imprints itself to the backs of his eyelids. Other times, he has Sam there to wake him up when he starts thrashing in his sleep. When his hands curl around the sheets the same way they do a knife. When he croaks out Alastair's name. He'll wake up to Sammy shaking him, to a shout of “Dean!” in his brothers familiar voice, to a pillow to the face that startles him out of the dreams.

They never talk about it. They never talk about Sam's dreams either. The ones where he groans and lets out an endless string of “no's.” The one's where he calls out to Jess.

And if sometimes, Dean calls out to Cas in the same way, it is never talked about either.

Tonight, Sam isn't here. They're fighting again over something Dean can't remember, doesn't even understand. Probably something stupid, something Bobby would have hit them both over the head for. He knows Sam is mad enough that he demanded two hotel rooms, and that he stalked off to his private room without so much as a goodnight.

Dean's checked the mini bar. There's nothing even slightly alcoholic in it, and he's too tired to drive to a bottle shop. He turns to tell Sam to go, to get a late night snack and a drink (or seven) for them both, and his throat closes up when he remembers. Even as mad as he is, Dean would prefer to keep his little brother by his side. They'd been through enough that he felt he deserved at least that, though he's sure the brother in question would disagree.

Resigned, Dean lies down, fully clothed, expecting to spend the night staring at the ceiling (orange, with patterns designed to make it look old and sophisticated when it is anything but). Instead, he sleeps.

 

_It's Hell, and Dean would recognise those smells anywhere. The smell of smoke, of rotting flesh, of spilled blood. Last time he was here, Dean had learned to tune out the noise around him, but it's been years and he's not used to it. A symphony of screams, man and woman, adult and child, ring in his ears. The woman tied up in front of him is a main contributor._

_She is held up by hooks, stabbed through the flesh of her shoulders, her thighs, and isn't_ that  _a familiar sight. Dean has just finished carving into her. Song lyrics that go right to the bone run the length of her legs,_ carry on my wayward son  _for her left,_ there'll be peace when you are done _for the right. The woman knows the song. She had sung it for her child, when she was alive. She sings it now, too, softly as she cries._

_Dean stalks forward with his knife in hand and tilts the woman's head up. The singing stops as she stares at him. Her body trembles and small whimpers escape her throat, but her eyes are not fearful. They burn bright in the dark, and Dean decides he hates them. The knife is raised. The screaming starts up again._

_What feels like hours later, Dean stands back with other demons and admires his work. The woman is screaming, broken sounds that cut off half way, and the demons around him cackle. They pat him on the back and hiss in his ears._ Dean, _they say, and their voices are approving._

_He had hated her eyes. So he had cut them out. Only now, staring at them where they sat at her bloody feet, did Dean realise they were blue. A bright, vivid blue that was so familiar to him. That he had seen before._ Cas.

_It comes back to him all at once, that he's been here before, should not be here again. He jolts away from the demons, away from the woman, away from the smoke that surrounds him and runs. He runs blindly, desperate to get away, to get back to Cas and Sam and be anywhere but here. Alastair's voice rings out above the screaming, his nasally laughter loud and obnoxious. It follows him as he runs, clings to him and slows him down. Alastair's voice is in his ears, coming from everywhere and whispering_ Dean. Dean. Dean.

_He's afraid and choking on it. Fear makes his muscles freeze, makes him want to hide, but the panic in his system pushed through that. It wants to run, to flee, to never look back. It's a painful juxtaposition._

_He tries to outrun that voice, get away from that voice but there is no where to run. There is only more smoke and more pain and blood, so much blood. Blood that runs down the walls and under his feet and covers his hands and Dean is still running blindly, madly-_

 

_And then all at once it's gone. Dean is four, and he's at the little diner Mary used to take them on Sunday mornings. She is across from him, scanning a menu while holding out the car keys for a baby Sam to play with. Sam is in his high chair, and drooling._

_Mary puts down the menu and asks something Dean doesn’t hear, because he was just in Hell carving out a woman’s eyes, and now he sits before the woman that loved him and raised him and everything is so bright and cheerful and_ wrong.  _His child body can't take the emotion he feels, can't handle it's own memories. So he wails._

_Mary is alarmed, and he hears her shocked,_ Dean!  _Dean is lost, crying through the shock of being in Hell, the horror and the revulsion at what he had done, the guilt at the pain he caused, the fear at hearing Alastair again. His body is shaking and his eyes are blurry and he isn't breathing properly any more._

_Mary reaches out a hand to grasp his arm, and her touch burns. Dean yelps away from her, startled, and realises that his mothers hand is on fire. The flame flickers and spreads up her arm, up up up and over her shoulder. Across her chest to her other arm and down to her stomach and up to her head until Mary is engulfed in flame, burning but seemingly unconcerned. Her hand is still stretched out to him and her mouth opens to croak out another_ Dean.  _It's familiar, too familiar, and even after everything he's been through, Dean never thought he would have to watch his Mother burn again._

_Dean can see skin burning up and muscle disappearing. Beside him Sam is crying, crying because he doesn't understand and neither does Dean, really. He watches, terrified, as bone slowly turns to ash and someone is screaming, and it might be him but he's not really sure any more as he watches his Mother's outstretched hand melt away-_

 

_And he's gone again. He's sitting in a bar he knows but doesn't remember and his dazed mind can't take in anything except that where a hand once reached out to him, there is now a bowl of bar nuts._

_Dean doesn't try to understand this time. He's the right age again, so he doesn't cry, but his hands tremble where they're clenched around a beer he doesn't remember ordering. Everything hurts, and he shoves the drink away to rest his arms on the bar and drop his head on top of them._

_His head is a swirling mess. He can still hear Alastair repeating his name, hear his Mother yelping it in concern, and his mind plays them both on repeat. It is as if Alastair and Mary had been in the same room when they had spoken to him, as if they had both been vying for his attention. But they would never be in the same place again, unless Mary had gone to Hell, and Dean's mind helpfully pulls up a string of images for him. Mary, strung up on the rack and burned, over and over and over until she can't scream any more. Mary, strung up on Alastair's rack, subject to the same tortures Dean had gone through. Mary, strung up on_ Dean's _rack and crying as Dean picks up the knife._

_It takes him a minute to remember how to breathe. Each breath he takes is more laboured than the last._

“ _Dean,” someone says, except that's not someone, that's Sammy, and he almost doesn't want to look but he does anyway, turning to the brother that has appeared beside him. Sam looks healthy and he isn't on fire and he's not covered in blood. Dean's ready to call it a win when he reaches the eyes. Sam's eyes are black, just like any other demons, just like the ones he left in Hell._

_Dean doesn't know what he expected._

_The smile Sam gives him is cold and unfriendly and Dean knows this is not his brother. His hand goes toward the knife on his belt before he is fully aware of it; an instinct John had made sure he had. Sam laughs and flicks his hand and Dean is flying off his chair and against the wall. The other patrons in the bar have disappeared and it's just the two of them._

_The exorcism falls from Dean's mouth easily, and nothing happens. He's struck with the knowledge that Sam is not possessed, no, this is_ him. _Pumped so full of demon blood that he'd become one himself, and that hurts, because he can't fight Sam, not his little brother._

_Sam says his name again. His voice is amused and just a bit pitying, and his hand is raising again. Dean thinks hysterically whether or not dying in dreams is fatal._

_Surprisingly, he doesn't get to find out, because there's a loud bang and then a figure is storming in. It shoves past Sam and Dean barely has time to recognise the wrinkled coat, the burning blue eyes before Cas is pressing two fingers to his forehead. There's more banging and Sam is shouting and everything is light for one blissful moment before it is dark again._

 

He's staring at the orange ceiling.

Dean's not sure when exactly he woke up. He's gasping and panicked and that ceiling is still hideous. Cas is beside him, perched on the edge of the bed and frowning. He's staring but Dean doesn't care because he's still trying to bring his heart rate down. It's been a long time since he had a dream that bad, and it takes all he has in him not to curl up into a ball and cry for a good long while.

Cas waits for Dean's breathing to regulate a bit more before he speaks. “You were dreaming,” he says. “A nightmare.”

Dean wishes he had a witty retort lined up, but all he manages is a shaky exhale and a nod.

“I apologise for intruding on your dreams. I thought in this case, you would not object to being woken up.” Cas is still frowning, and there's something else mixed with the concern in his eyes, and Dean is far too drained to think about that. He shuts his eyes and works on his breathing, pointedly not thinking about the way Mary had burned or how the demons had laughed or how Sam had said his name like he was just another _meatsuit._

The only sound in the room is Dean's sporadic breathing for a long time until there's a rustle of clothing, and then there's a body lying down beside him. He opens his eyes to see Cas stretch out on the bed and face Dean, and Dean can't help but roll onto his side to face the angel in return. They're close, but not touching and this is _right._

Dean is still shaky and Sam is still mad at him and there's still a million things weighing on his shoulders making it hard to breathe but right now none of that matters. Not when Cas is so close and his eyes are shutting. Not when he's so warm, and Dean subtly scoots himself forward to get more of that warmth, until there is barely any space in between them.

Dean can't remember how they got from snarling and demanding things of one another to here but he doesn't really think he minds.

“Dean,” Cas says. He smiles around the word, and Dean decides that, yes, it was all worth this.

 


End file.
